


If I Had a Talking Picture of You

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, POV Scott McCall (Teen Wolf)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 21:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18557824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: Things have changed between them. They’re no longer one another’s onlys, and that’s a good thing, it’s helping them grow. Scott was the first one to pull away, to try to forge new friendships, so how can he be angry with Stiles for following his lead?





	If I Had a Talking Picture of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Onlyaweiterinmyhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlyaweiterinmyhead/gifts).



> Thank you to [snoopypez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez), who is the best soundboard and Ameri-picker a girl could ask for. Title from the song of the same name. Written for a prompt by Onlyaweiterinmyhead.

“I can’t tonight,” Stiles says, and Scott raises an eyebrow because that’s the fifth time in the last few weeks that Stiles has blown him off. 

“Tomorrow?” he asks. Although he has long-standing plans with his mom, she’d understand if he needed to reschedule. 

“And take over Scott-Melissa time? No, thanks. I value my life. It can wait until next week, can’t it.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

Sure, going through the bestiary one more time to add additional anecdotal notes can wait until next week, but Scott doesn’t want it to. And not just because he knows it’s an endeavor that will help them in the future. He’s been enjoying this time with Stiles, separate from the rest of the pack. It’s almost like how they used to be – living in each other’s pockets and offering up little bits of their love like lint they’ve found there. 

Scott doesn’t know if he sounds some kind of way when he asks, “What are you up to?”, but Stiles looks at him for a beat before he answers.

“Drew’s freaking out about one of his Late Antiquity papers and I promised I’d help him.”

Scott thinks about asking if he can join them and turn it into a study group session. He thinks about inviting himself over without a request. He thinks about telling Stiles that it isn’t fair Drew’s had the lion’s share of Stiles’ attention lately. 

But. Scott doesn’t like to ask for things, it’s always made him uncomfortable, always started that little voice in the back of his head that tells him rejection is worse than any benefit he might gain from putting himself out there. He doesn’t like being an imposition. Doesn’t want to rock the boat. Stiles would be suspicious if he started to behave differently. 

He also recognizes that he’s being petty and small. 

Things have changed between them. They’re no longer one another’s onlys, and that’s a good thing, it’s helping them grow. Scott was the first one to pull away, to try to forge new friendships, so how can he be angry with Stiles for following his lead? 

It’s just… he is though, deep down, in the parts of himself he doesn’t like to examine too closely. Not angry so much as hurt. Not betrayed, but not considered either. Not abandoned, but mislaid, left for longer than he’d like. 

Scott realizes Stiles is waiting for some form of response, so he wills up every ounce of his strength.

“Have fun then,” he says, somehow managing a smile that feels sincere. 

*

When they were nine, they both played baseball in a little league team. Stiles was gregarious and curious, could be seen chatting with anyone nearby. Some of the kids initially responded well to this and others complained to the coach that he was annoying. The kids who’d seemed to enjoy Stiles before quickly turned on him at this suggestion. Scott, on the other hand, preferred to observe others before giving his thoughts and opinions, and was soundly ignored by everyone except Stiles from the first day to the last. 

Stiles was branded a loudmouth, Scott was branded a boring creeper, and even though Scott had heard his parents arguing that they’d enrolled him so he’d make more friends, he came away from the entire experience with a stronger, deeper friendship with Stiles and latent mistrust of everyone else. 

It wasn’t that Scott didn’t like other people, it was more that he didn’t feel the need for anyone else with Stiles in his life. Stiles gave him attention, entertainment, companionship and a sense of belonging. Scott liked his chatter, his curiosity, his insistence on carving his own little groove into Scott and fitting against him. And he knew Stiles felt the same about him, even though he never said it in so many words. He knew because of the way Stiles would sling an arm around his shoulder and smile at him and hang on his every word in a way no one else had ever bothered.

*

Drew is as normal as can be, for a given value of normal. He’s not supernatural, or connected with hunters. He doesn’t even seem to know about beasts that go bump in the night. He’s been thoroughly vetted by everyone in the pack, from Lydia who used her emerging psychic powers, to Mason who used simple questions, to Noah who used national databases. Drew is just another college student studying the classics who happened to make friends with Stiles at the end of sophomore year, after Stiles enrolled at UC Davis alongside Scott. He’s nice to Scott, but their conversations almost always end in them talking about Stiles, because Drew’s interested in WoW in a way Scott’s never been, and obsessive about baseball stats in a way Scott’s never managed, and listens more to pop punk than pop, and basically he’s the side of Stiles that Scott’s always watched happily but never been fully able to engage with.

They try to limit Drew’s interactions with the pack as a whole because they’ve all agreed that they’ll have friends who aren’t in on their secrets, who help them stay tethered to the wider world, who give them moments of escape. 

But Stiles has been spending a lot of time with Drew, lately, and Scott’s about a hair’s breadth away from making him an honorary pack member in order to reclaim Stiles’ time. 

It’s another two weeks later. They still haven’t written up notes, so Scott’s started a draft by himself. He reads back on past notes he and Stiles wrote together and laughs at all their jokes, the little flourishes they used so that when everything goes to shit there will be some light. His own newly written comments read dry so he mixes up some word choices, adds another reference to ‘weeping’ angels, and they’re better, but they’re not the same. 

Scott’s phone vibrates and his nerves surge, thinking it might be a message from Stiles, but it’s his reminder, telling him to settle down for the night. After he’s showered and wrapped himself up in his bed, he scrolls through his phone until he finds videos he and Stiles made when they were fifteen, before Scott got bitten, before their lives took a turn down dark and twisted roads. 

They look so young and full of life. Fifteen year old Stiles has chubby cheeks, bright eyes, zits along his jawline and an infectious laugh. Fifteen year old Scott has floppy hair, warm eyes, a giant zit on his nose, and a sunshine smile. Scott’s chest aches as he gazes at them and listens as they discuss skateboarding tricks they’re about to perform – and as Scott remembers, totally fuck up -- these people he and Stiles used to be, these innocent children who only knew _some_ of the horrors of the world. 

Scott doesn’t want to go back to those times, not truly, but he sighs as he watches Stiles gaze at Scott full of love and laughter. Gives a small, hurt sound when video-Stiles strokes a hand over video-Scott’s head and ruffles his hair.

*

“I _like_ that shirt,” Stiles says, giving Scott a once-over, tugging at the bottom hemline before smoothing over Scott’s shoulders. He’s close enough Scott can see the beginnings of stubble on his chin. 

“You could borrow it, if you want?” Scott offers, and completely ignores how his heart does a little somersault in his chest at the idea of Stiles wearing his clothes again. 

“It wouldn’t look as good on me,” Stiles says with a curt shake of his head. He takes a step away. 

Scott sways forward before he can stop himself, tries to hide the gesture by stepping to the side and collecting his phone from a nearby table. 

They meet the pack at a diner they’ve requisitioned as their own and it’s going well, but Stiles is neither next to him nor across from him, and after an hour Scott realizes his neck’s hurting because he keeps craning to look at Stiles. 

“You wanna swap seats?” Malia whispers a few minutes later, quiet enough only supernatural hearing would pick it up.

The relief Scott feels is unwieldy, makes him feel a little sick to his stomach. If Malia can tell, has seen this want Scott has so clearly, probably everyone else here can too but is too polite to say. He shakes his head, and spends the rest of the evening only looking toward Stiles when he’s speaking to the crowd, or the one time he speaks directly to Scott. By the end of the night they have full stomachs and a training schedule organized, and Scott’s weighing up the odds of humiliation or confusion if he offers to walk Stiles to his dorm. 

Then Stiles gets a phone call, says, “I’ll be there in ten, Drew,” and leaves Scott with a single lean-in and pat on the back. 

*

When Stiles decided to enroll at UC Davis, Scott couldn’t stop part of himself believing it was for him, to be near him, so they could orbit around each other again like a binary star. But Stiles moved into a different dorm, and then he started using his carefully reconstructed friendliness to make connections with new people, and then he stopped spending as much time with Scott.

They still hang out, but it’s rarely just the two of them. 

And Scott’s proud of Stiles, is the thing. He’s impressed with how well-adjusted he appears. Stiles is still gregarious and curious and loudmouthed, but everyone seems to like that now. Stiles gives the impression of being confident, but not overly arrogant, and everyone flocks to that. 

Plus, the same is true of Scott. He isn’t lonely because no one else gives him the time of day. Scott has many casual friends and acquaintances that can be relied upon to want to study, or grab a meal, or catch a movie. Scott doesn’t want for company.

He does, though, because sometimes there’s only one person’s company that he longs for. 

Scott remembers how fifteen year old him used to get tired of Stiles talking about Lydia ad nauseam, but could never work out why it bothered him. He thinks about how he was happy for Stiles when he was with Malia but aware he could still talk to him any second he wanted. He thinks about how it felt right when Stiles and Lydia finally got together, but somehow even more right when they didn’t work out. He thinks about how Stiles lights up when he talks about Drew, how comfortable he now appears in his own skin. 

Scott thinks about the fact he used to rely so much on having Stiles by his side and how much he took it for granted. 

*

The party is in full swing when Scott and his friends Amber and Tino enter the chaos. Up until twenty minutes ago, Scott was studying in the library, color-coding the shared notes he and Amber use in google docs and showing Tino how the editing feature works. 

But then Amber whined long and loud, said Scott promised it would only be an hour, and rather than abandon him, dragged him and Tino to the party her girlfriend helped set up. 

There are at least 300 students packed into one of the smaller dorms, spilling from room to room. In one room there are buffet tables laid out with a variety of home-made looking foods, another has two kegs and an assortment of wines and spirits, yet another has no furniture at all and a throng of people dancing to a mash-up of the Monster Mash and a Trap song. 

Scott has no idea how they got all this past their RA. 

He chills with Tino for a while, eating a particularly delicious pastry confection that he’s never had before. They’ve retreated to one of the quieter rooms, filled with chatting students, and far enough away from the dancefloor that the music isn’t pressing Scott’s eardrums deeper into his skull. The room is lit by a few warm lamps and Scott listens as Tino talks about learning guitar and the chord progressions that he’s having difficulty with.

Scott’s nose twitches and he swivels his head. Stiles is here somewhere; his specific combination of chemosignals firing Scott’s olfactory synapses. If he shouted ‘Marco’, would he hear an answering ‘Polo’? Possibly, but the chances of it being Stiles answering are slim. Scott tries to concentrate on Tino again, but that scent keeps arresting his attention. Scott knows what it’s like to be pushed aside and disregarded, and the last thing he wants is to make anyone else feel that way. 

“Sorry, Tino, you mind if we get something more to eat?”

They make their way back to the buffet and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles talking animatedly with Drew and another newer friend Scott’s forgotten the name of. Scott stares at him a moment, the ease with which Stiles is holding himself, the relaxed smile flirting at the corners of his lips, the way in which he both seamlessly fits into this environment and stands out. Scott’s heart flips once, twice. He watches how Drew drinks in everything Stiles is saying with a pang of discomfort, an edge of suffering. That used to be him. That was his place.

There’s a second, two, and then Stiles is looking across at Scott, his gaze a mixture of surprise and quiet consideration.

Scott lifts his hand in a wave at the same time Stiles does and they smile goofily at each other. 

Stiles places a hand on Drew’s arm, nods in Scott’s direction, is taking a step forward, when out of the blue Amber grabs hold of Scott’s hands and drags him onto the dancefloor. Scott looks behind himself, but can’t see Stiles in the hustle and bustle of other party-goers. Amber dances against him, Tino joins a moment later, and they begin pulling out all of their silliest dance moves.

Scott tries listening in to Stiles’ heartbeat, zeroing in on his chemosignals, but they get lost among the press of bodies. 

When Scott eventually makes his way free, after succumbing to a good half-hour of dance-party fun, Stiles is nowhere to be found. 

*

 _Sorry we didn’t get to chat tonite,_ Stiles texts at 3 am. 

Scott’s still startlingly awake, looking through past photos again, wishing he had more video footage of them. He knows why they never recorded more, but he regrets it now, when there’s a four year gap of memories and visual mementos, pieces of their lives captured for Scott to review when he needs this kind of comfort.

He texts back. _Me too. Go sleep._

It’s an order to himself as well as Stiles.

*

Scott’s phone rings, which is a matter for immediate concern because no one he knows calls anymore, and when he looks at screen, it’s Stiles.

“Code red?” Scott asks as soon as he answers. It’s their foolproof system of quick communication and anyone who overhears them assumes they’re being massive dorks. 

“Green,” Stiles says, loud and exuberant. “We’re at KetMoRee and your song came on. I figured you should be here.” 

He’s slightly slurring his words and Scott can imagine the sheen of sweat against his brow, the kaleidoscope of colors adorning his skin, the softness of his eyes. In the background a dance remix of ‘Everything is Awesome’ can be heard and Scott smiles and rolls his eyes, because it’s _Stiles_ who said this is Scott’s song, he’s never claimed to like it – though he does.

Stiles has invited Scott out a couple of times before, and Scott went once, though he ended up sitting in the corner watching as Stiles and Drew talked about something he has no knowledge or interest of. Scott felt like a spare part; an extra screw or optional shelf, there, but superfluous. The next time, he claimed he needed to study. 

“I’ll be there,” he says, even though it might be awkward, even though he feels like Stiles is probably just drunk, even though he’s not sure how he’ll react to seeing Stiles surrounded by other people who like him. 

“Awesome. I love you!” Stiles yells, then the line goes dead. 

Scott deliberates over what he’s going to wear for way too long, but eventually he dresses in a neat green button down and his newest jeans, and a little time after that the Uber he decided to take is pulling up near the nightclub. The line to get in is fourteen people deep, so Scott texts Stiles that he’s there but waiting, and before he knows it, Stiles has stomped outside, grabbed him, and is pulling him back through the main entrance.

“Thanks Ricky,” Stiles says to the bouncer, palming him $20. 

Scott raises his eyebrows at Stiles once they’re safely ensconced in a booth. 

“I wish I could say that’s how it looked, but he lent it to me last week. I was just paying him back,” Stiles says in answer to the question Scott didn’t ask out loud. 

Stiles is hazy-eyed, lazy-limbed and loose-lipped. After he buys him and Scott beers he sprawls almost indecently on his seat, nodding his head in time to the beat. Scott tells him about his day, the professor who wore pajamas to their lecture, the impromptu a cappella performance in the middle of a workshop. Stiles listens, asks questions where appropriate, and gives Scott his full attention. 

“Where’s Drew?” Scott asks after about twenty minutes, mostly for selfish reasons, so he can judge how long he has with Stiles alone. 

Stiles looks around with narrowed eyes, then pulls Scott close, points in the direction of a darkened corner, where Drew’s dancing with a guy and a girl. “Living his best life,” Stiles says, a puff of warm air against Scott’s cheek. 

“Aren’t you jealous?” Scott asks before he can stop himself.

“No, why would I be?” Stiles asks back with a frown. “Wait. Do you think Drew and I – Hang on, Scotty, don’t you think I would’ve told you if I had a boyfriend?”

“We haven’t really had a lot of time to talk lately,” Scott says with a shrug of his shoulder, trying to ignore how his whole body is thrumming with the knowledge that Stiles and Drew are purely platonic. 

“Does it bother you? The idea of me being with Drew?”

Scott doesn’t know how to articulate his response. The answer is very firmly yes and no. Yes, because Scott wants to be with Stiles, no because anything that makes Stiles happy is good. Yes, because Drew doesn’t know anything about the secret side to Stiles, the one who runs with wolves. No, because maybe that’s the way things are supposed to go, perhaps this is how Stiles breaks free. 

“No,” Scott says, taking a sip of beer. It’s awful and he pushes it away so he isn’t tempted to drink more. Stiles stares at him, more focused than he’s been so far this evening.

Scott gets to a point where he can’t help but want to tell the truth, to be his most authentic self. It always comes after a denial. He takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Why?” Stiles asks, and it’s the tone they’ve used before the world’s gone to hell, before potentially giving up their lives. 

Scott thinks and thinks and thinks, weighing up the risks, the wrong answers and the right answers, the truth, the lies. But then realizes he needs to stop thinking and simply feel. 

“I wanna be with you, Stiles. All the time. I _miss_ you.”

“You mean, like, as best friends.”

_Yes. No. Both._

“Yes. No. Both.”

“What’s both? I only gave one suggestion,” Stiles says with a loose flail, eyebrows high on his head. 

“Yes _and_ no. Of course I miss you like a best friend. But I – I miss you as something we’ve never been, too. I miss you as the almost I’ve never allowed myself to wonder about.”

Stiles blinks at him and Scott regrets his honesty. How does he take these words back, eat them up and hold them deep inside? His heart’s a mess, his blood is racing, his muscles are simultaneously tense and weak like at any moment his body’s going to collapse into a puddle of gelatinous goo.

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, and Scott’s waiting for the, _“Sorry, buddy, I don’t feel the same way.”_

“You mean to tell me I’ve been forcing myself to give you time and space without me and this entire time you’ve wanted to get _closer_?” Stiles asks, strained and edging on hysterical. “I’ve been torturing myself by viewing you from afar and I could’ve been doing what I desperately want to do for months now.”

Scott’s heart stops, his knees go weak. “What is it you wanna do?”  


“Some days, I wanna climb inside you. Is that creepy? I don’t care. I dream about devouring you and wake up in a cold sweat and sticky sheets. Also creepy? I continue not to care. Fuck, Scott, I’ve been half-crazed in loving you since I knew what love was.”

Scott thinks for a nanosecond, another, that Stiles is mocking him, but the earnestness in Stiles’ expression, posture and chemosignals say otherwise.

“Everything you’re saying is _so_ creepy and I have no idea why it’s working on me,” Scott says, scooting closer to Stiles and laying a hand on his arm, the other on his thigh. One of Stiles’ hands slides to the back of Scott’s head, cradling him. The other winds around his waist, pulling him tighter, closer. 

Scott takes a shuddering breath, leans into Stiles like he’s been thinking about, and presses a soft, sweet kiss against his lips. Stiles kisses him back with care, tender and loving. They pull apart for a breath and then surge back together. 

Scott surrenders himself to the sensations and memorizes every suck of Stiles’ lips, slide of his fingers, and flutter of his eyelashes as he moves away to gaze at Scott full of awe and wonder.

*

Stiles’ hair is sleep mussed and his face relaxed as Scott views him through his phone screen. Scott revels in the ability to see him like this again, in a way he hasn’t for so long; intimate and private. For this moment, here, it’s like they’re the only two people in the world, strengthened by a connection no one else can shatter. 

Stiles opens his eyes and the look he gives Scott is honeyed.

They spent the night together, though the extent of their fumblings was kissing and cuddling. Scott loved every minute, getting to explore Stiles anew. He has a new appreciation for Stiles’ voice when he’s sleepy, a deeper appreciation for when words escape him because he’s been kissed breathless, and the deepest appreciation for when Stiles moans loud and low.

“Morning,” Scott replies, though he doesn’t meet Stiles’ eyes yet, because he’s watching the play of light across his features as detailed on his phone. 

“Are you recording me?” Stiles asks, feigning indignation. 

Scott knows it’s an act because a second later he’s posing seductively, eyes half-closed and smile brazen and cheeky. He looks halfway to debauched and Scott hasn’t kissed him in the past five hours, which he is now regretting with every fiber of his being. 

“Definitely.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Scott returns, because he’s still not able to vocalize how much he yearns to collect these moments on video, to create these bite-sized versions of them to turn to when he wants to feel safe and loved. 

Stiles shifts position so Scott stops recording, but the next second Stiles has Scott in the crook of his arm, like he did when they were fifteen, and he’s put Scott’s phone into selfie-mode. He presses a kiss to Scott’s cheek and nuzzles against his jaw, recording all the while. 

“Good morning, Scotty,” Stiles says again, peering at the camera coquettishly. 

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” Scott replies with a grin. 

The phone gets abandoned among the bed clothes as they collapse into kisses once more. 

“Dinner tonight?” Stiles asks Scott a while later, when they’re finally dressed and ready to face the wider world. 

“Just us?” 

Stiles’ eyes go soft, fond, and he strokes his fingers against Scott’s jaw. Scott has a feeling he’s noticed something Scott didn’t even know was on display. 

“You and me,” Stiles confirms. “Everyone else can wait. I want you to myself.”


End file.
